


Turn Your Mind Into My Home

by soda_coded



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Father/Son Incest, Home Invasion, Incest, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Power Dynamics, Public Masturbation, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 08:35:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21268133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soda_coded/pseuds/soda_coded
Summary: Like every bad dream Malcolm had, his father was there.





	Turn Your Mind Into My Home

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for nothing. Will probably write more for this. It's been... fun. Title from Mind Games, by Sickick.

Like every bad dream Malcolm had, his father was there.

Malcolm didn’t bother to sit up- to find out whether or not he was restrained in this particular nocturnal excursion. There was no true free will in a nightmare. He was bound by the fear, which meant that Malcolm didn’t even bother to jerk against his bonds when he saw him. Lay still instead, just like any other time he was a child faced with an imagined monster in the corner.

Still, he was an adult now which meant that if he felt terrified and helpless and his father was there? Probably a nightmare. Dreams… Whether you believed they were subconscious vapors or forced therapy, either way Malcolm always tried to get the most out of a dream where he knew he was dreaming. Even with no free will, he had lots of choice.

Malcolm liked choosing, sometimes. When it was safe.

Today, he wanted to discuss the case first. So, even though his cock was already swelling with anticipation in his shorts, Malcolm looked calmly at the specter of his father. “So, what do you think of her?”

He waited a moment, while Dad shifted, uneasy with his open acknowledgement. Was it uncomfortable for the vapors of his dream to be addressed? Like the actors in a spook house, if you spoke to them, did they _ have _ to acknowledge you in return? He continued after a moment, impatient. “_Her eyes_. What do you think he did with her eyes?”

Another moment, another shifting step. Malcolm swallowed, hands fisting beside himself, and oh, so he was restrained. Excellent. His father stirred from the shadows. He looked older in this dream, that silver lacing his hair in a way that would have looked distinguished before his medical license had been revoked. 

Good.The worst ones were when he looked _ younger _. Thinner. Full beard and warm smile for his best boy. Malcolm preferred realism, to a nostalgic fantasy.

“Well, for investigative purposes, it wouldn’t matter what he did with the eyes. Well, maybe to the family… but! But it would matter where he got the mirrors.” His father’s voice was formal, but direct. A teaching voice, and Malcolm wondered what it must have been like to be a young resident assigned Dr. Whitly. To have such sure, confident hands guide your own to help _ save _ a life.

Interestingly enough, he was wearing his jumpsuit this time which Malcolm could only see now that he’d stepped further into the light. It was also muddied, on the knees and hems, an interesting detail. Malcolm wondered about it’s significance, before dismissing the thought. He tried not to over analyze his dreams too much while in them. Kept him trapped, wondering, often for longer than he wanted. Easier to just enjoy himself, get it over with.

After all there were easier ways to burn the devil out.

Malcolm let his hand dip under the blankets. Fingers dancing over the flat of his belly, soft through his sleep shirt, until he was tracing his pubis, the root of his cock. Everything felt so _ real _\- he’d thought his sleep would be muzzy, as he’d given in and raided Mommy’s cabinet earlier. The nightmare was expected given what he’d taken, the clarity was a welcome surprise. Let his thumb stray along the length of himself as a reward, ignoring the way his Dad’s eyes jumped to the movement under his blanket.

Ooh. Malcolm always forgot that sudden, predatory attention to detail, and how terrifying it was. Excellent. His brain was really pulling out all the stops on this one.

“Interesting.” He said. It wasn’t. It was banal at best, but Malcolm will tolerate it, for the sake of ending this dream before it escapes his control. When his father hesitates at his tone, Malcolm waves him on with his free hand, before propping it comfortably under his head. “Keep going, I’d like to hear it. Although, for my own sake, if it matters to your profile, I didn’t ask for Gil- the PD. I asked for myself.”

Paused. Licked his lips. 

“Just curious what you think.” He added.

His father nodded once, slowly, like he was taking it in. His hands were still clasped in front of him, and only now did Malcolm register the glint of silver cuffing them together. Nodded again, but this time tipped his crown in the direction of Malcolm’s steadily moving hand.

“As thrilled as I am you’re exploring our shared interests again, am I supposed to just ignore… that?”

“_ Interesting. _” Malcolm said, only this time he meant it. Normally his father never commented on his dream actions, ignoring them entirely to speak to him, unless Malcolm brought his attention on whatever he was doing directly. He’d never been like this, brown eyes moving over his face quickly, devouring each moment of his existence like he’d never seen him before. Or maybe, because of the prison clothes, as if he’d never see him again? Maybe Malcolm’s subconscious was projecting the guilt he’d felt abandoning his father all these years, by making him more sympathetic. Whatever it was, it wasn’t enough to deter him from his goal. 

Malcolm had found that a nocturnal ejaculation either ripped him from the depths of REM, or on good nights, was enough to wake him entirely. A clean quick eject button, the only side effect being a leery intimacy with the worst of his demons.

“Would it be better if I showed you, Daddy?” Malcolm asked, the words coming out with only a moment's hesitation. Even when he’d called his attention to himself before, his father had never turned that predatory interest onto him. Had never let his eyes burn with unnatural fascination over his son, licked his lips the way he did for a fresh murder. “I don’t mind if we talk about it, as long as you let me cum first.”

He pulled against his wrist straps to slide the bedclothes down, baring them to the chill of the room, his father’s feverish gaze. To show him where he strained against the front of his boxers. It was almost easier to reach his cock than the covers in these chains, and he laid a hand over himself, coy.

“Yes.” His father said, voice rough with emotion. “You can. Yes, of course, dear boy.”

“Yes, I can what?” Malcolm asked, just to see if he’d say it. Watched his eyes travel with Malcolm’s hands as he teased a single finger up and down, up and down enjoying the catch and pull of the cotton across his head. It was like a magic trick. He moved and his father bobbed along to the motion.

“Yes. Yes, you can cum.” His father said.

“Alright.” Malcolm said, maybe more satisfied with this dream than was really normal. Slipped his hand into the banding of his boxers and wrapped it around himself. “What about this do you need clarification on? My motivation or where I bought the boxers?”

His father hummed, a tick Malcolm wasn’t sure he’d have remembered without his subconscious doing the heavy lifting. His words had been an attempt to needle, interesting that it worked.

“How ol- No.” Martin stopped himself, reflexively waving his hands the few inches his cuffs would allow, cutting off his own train of thought. “When- when did this start?”

Malcolm scoffed.

“C’mon, brain, you can do better than that.” He said. “Daddy could _ guess _ that one.”

“Could he?” Martin asked, a strange twist to his words, a bite Malcolm didn’t understand, but that sped the crude tugging on his cock. “Let’s try then, shall we? These feelings, although clearly more comfortable to you now, must have been uncomfortable at first. You would have become awkward, withdrawn, anxious… oh. So _ young _, Malcolm, really? Only twelve? When you stopped hugging me goodbye after every visit?”

“Wow. I doubt the esteemed Dr. Whitly would fantasize so obviously about his underage son. That has to be my own neurose.” Malcolm said. Laughed at the look on his Dad’s face, the motion making his stomach tighten and jerk as the pleasure built. “Alright, alright I’ll play _ nice _.”

He emphasized the word with a full stroke, shivers from the toe-curling pleasure and from the heat of his Daddy’s gaze. The eyes were more than he could handle, and between the fervent attention being paid him, and the gentle warmth filling him, this one hardly felt like a nightmare.

“Go ahead.” He said. “AMA.”

“Okay, son. Do you think you’re dreaming, right now?” Dr. Whitly asked carefully, his words formal, and Malcolm paused mid-pull.

“That’s a better question.” Malcolm said, thinking it through. Harder with his blood taking a detour. “You phrasing it that way implies your own sentience, as well as that- that-”

Terror flooded him as he looked up into the carnivorous gaze of Dr. Whitly, his father. Alone in his room, in his muddied jumpsuit.

“That you aren’t dreaming.” Dad said kindly. God, always kindly. “_ My dear boy. _”


End file.
